


Fire Rides

by Social_Hemophilia



Series: Take Care [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Otabek Altin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Future Fic, M/M, Omega Yuri Plisetsky, Skate America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Social_Hemophilia/pseuds/Social_Hemophilia
Summary: “I’m fine,” Yuri says. It comes out shaky, unpleasant discovery weakening his voice. “No, you’re not,” Otabek says. “You’re early.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Finished watching YOI two days ago, courtesy of my sister, and now I’m obsessed with this lil Punk Russian Fairy. Unbeta’d because my beta hasn’t seen YOI.
> 
> Title taken from the song [Fire Rides ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbUZTspAcFs) by MØ. I highly recommend the [night version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4_1SDeMfj8).

There’s a tightening in Yuri’s abdomen, a slow burn that has him hunching over for a moment, warm forehead pressed against the cool metal of the lockers. Frustration tenses him into stillness. 

 

A breath. And then he straightens. The tightness is still there. 

 

With a yell, he smashes his fist against the lockers. Six years. Of course his luck would eventually run out. It’s not like he hadn’t expected it to; he wasn’t a child after all. He hadn’t been much of one at fifteen and he certainly wasn’t much of one now at twenty. And it wasn’t as if this hasn’t happened before, because it has, four previous times to be exact. It’s just, if only the timing were better.

 

“There you are.” 

 

Otabek. Yuri would know that voice, that scent anywhere. Even in a locker room with all the other skater’s scents intermingled and lathered with sweat, Otabek’s is easy to pick out. Motor oil, leather, underlying hint of apples. 

 

From the corner of his eye, Yuri can see Otabek considering him, steady gaze searching for hidden injury. 

 

“I’m fine.” It comes out shaky, unpleasant discovery weakening his voice. 

 

“No, you’re not,” Otabek says. “You’re early.” 

 

Yuri barks out a laugh. “Really, that’s what you choose to focus on? The fact that I’m early? How about the fact this shouldn’t be happening at all?” It’s as if there was a fist grinding into his abdomen. He fights the urge to curl into himself. “Fuck.” 

 

Otabek wraps an arm around Yuri from behind. He does what Yuri will not allow himself to do and leans them into the wall of lockers, Yuri’s forehead once again pressed against cold metal. Heat simmers deep within him. Otabek pulls off Yuri’s team jacket. An air conditioned breeze travels along Yuri’s exposed collarbone, finds the thinnest parts of his costume and kisses his warm skin. Still, the heat remains. It’s trapped in the pit of his stomach. Yuri could lay naked on the ice and the heat would not abate. 

 

“We always knew this could happen,” Otabek murmurs, his words a summer breath along his ear. 

 

“Doesn’t make this any better,” Yuri says. 

 

Yuri presented at fourteen. He had spent the day before at the rink training with a low grade fever, had fallen asleep with his apartment windows opened to the winter gust, only to awaken the next morning drenched in sweat, fire in his belly, and the awkward sensation of slick seeping between his thighs. Three days later, the team doctor laid out his options in stark Russian crispness: quit his career as a professional figure skater or be on suppressants during the skating season. Really, for Yuri, it was no choice at all. 

 

But suppressants aren’t one size fits all. There are over a dozen different kinds. His first prescription had left him drowsy and hazy from insomnia. The second one had no apparent negative side effects, except for occasional spells of nausea right after ingestion, but proved an ultimate failure when he went through his next heat. The doctor tried increasing the dosage, but that only made the nausea worse and led to mornings spent hunched over a toilet, violently vomiting his meagre breakfast. The one he was on now had been their fifth try. Declared a winner by his doctor after a season heat free. Still, there always remained the possibility the suppressants would stop working. That they would somehow find themselves at odd with his body chemistry. 

 

Yuri groans. Otabek pulls him closer against his chest. He starts nosing along Yuri’s neck, buries his face in Yuri’s hair, inhales deeply. 

 

“Don’t,” Yuri says, “you’ll make it worse.” 

 

“Something tells me it will be worse if I don’t,” Otabek says. 

 

Yuri throws his head back, eyes closed. He lets Otabek scent mark him. They’ve been friends since that skating season when Yuri was fifteen, and began this relationship in earnest the night Yuri turned eighteen. Instinct, he’s come to learn since, is at times a guiding force Yuri is better off submitting to. 

 

“Yura…”

 

Otabek’s hand grasps Yuri’s left hip, fingers a bruising press against the spot of flesh that bears his mark. The firm hold grounds Yuri. 

 

For all the years that have passed since their first meeting, Yuri hasn't grown all that much. He can still tuck his head below Otabek’s chin. 

 

Dimly, he realizes he has done just that. 

 

“Yura,” Otabek says again, pressing them closer. 

 

And Yuri becomes aware of the speed of his breaths. Of how he's panting into Otabek’s neck. Of how he sounds as if he’s skated through his entire program.

 

Yuri pulls away and forces his breathing into an even rhythm. Otabek grasps his chin, meeting his eyes. 

 

“Perhaps you should inform Yakov,” Otabek says. 

 

“No, no way.” Yuri shakes him off. They are in Detroit for Skate America. This will be Yuri’s last performance before his final score is tallied. If he tells Yakov, his routine will get pulled. Otabek knows this. 

 

“Okay,” Otabek says. “If it keeps going like this, no one should notice.” 

 

When the season’s over and he's no longer on suppressants, Yuri has the kind of heats that take a day to build. But Otabek always knows. No matter how faint Yuri smells or how discreet he tries to be, it only takes Otabek one breath. A side effect of mating. 

 

“I could probably smell you from the other side of the rink,” Otabek had said once. 

 

“Who's on the ice?” Yuri asks. He can't remember who the newscasters last announced. 

 

“The American, Leo,” Otabek says. “Phichit is to perform after him.” 

 

Yuri nods. He’s due to skate after Phichit. They have time. He disentangles himself from Otabek, reaches around himself to catch the zipper of his costume. 

 

“Let me,” Otabek says, and pulls the zipper down, exposing Yuri’s back to the open air. Yuri shivers.

 

Otabek turns him around, watches as Yuri frees his arms from his sleeves. 

 

“Should I…?” Otabek gestures to his own costume.

 

“No,” Yuri says, because while Otabek scenting him hadn’t made the heat inside burn any worse, he has a feeling that being pressed against Otabek’s naked chest will only cause a wave that will speed matters up. 

 

Yuri drops his uniform down to his waist, his hip bones visibly protruding. “Beka,” the word comes out a hoarse breath. 

 

Otabek kisses him. Cold burns along Yuri’s back when Otabek presses himself into Yuri, once more pushing him into the lockers. Against his chest, the coolness of Otabek’s own costume soothes his skin. A moan builds in his throat, escapes the moment Otabek bites his shoulder. 

 

From there, Otabek’s lips trail downward, a steady pace that Yuri wishes were slower. Any other time, any other place, and it would have been. Otabek’s teeth graze a nipple; his tongue curls into the dip of Yuri’s belly button. 

 

By the time Otabek nears his destination, he is on his knees, Yuri’s slender fingers entangled in his hair. Otabek’s breath ghosts over the mark. Yuri tightens his hold. Otabek bites down. 

 

“Christ,” Yuri cries. He fights down the urge to close his eyes, forces himself to watch. Otabek on his knees, head bent, red lips pressed to Yuri’s hip. He’s broken skin. A thin red line runs from below his lips. For the briefest moment, it’s a wildfire. “Shit.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says later, after he's licked Yuri’s blood, kissed him one more time, and zipped his costume closed. His fingers run circles over the hidden bite mark. 

 

“It’s fine,” Yuri says. “I’ve skated with worse.” He doesn’t know which he means, the heat beneath his skin or the throbbing of the bite. It doesn’t matter, the words are still true. Yuri skates every competition with the shadow of Viktor’s glory on the ice.  

 

Otabek cups his cheek. “That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to.” 

 

Yuri smiles. “You worry too much, Beka.” 

 

“Would’t you, if our roles were reversed?” 

 

Yuri doesn’t answer. Instead, he stretches to his tip toes and kisses Otabek. A silent token of gratitude. Any other alpha would have disregarded Yuri’s wish and told Yakov. Any other alpha would think Yuri too weak to go out on that rink while in the beginnings of his heat. 

 

Something vibrates when Yuri puts his team jacket back on. He searches both pockets until he finds his phone. There are ten unread messages. Five are from Viktor wondering where he has gone, doesn’t he know he is up soon? Two are from Yuuri wondering the same thing, another asking if he is all right. One is from Yakov demanding his whereabouts in capital letters. Yuri doesn’t bother replying to any of them. The final is from his grandfather. It’s a picture of their kitchen counter, the ingredients to make pirozhok set in a line. 

 

“The old man already thinks I’ve won.”  

 

Otabek stands beside him. “No, just faith that you will.” 

 

They walk out of the locker room together. Otabek returns to his coach and Yuri goes to stand beside Lilia who, after one glance, clucks her tongue, berates him for messing up his hair and proceeds to re-braid it before he has the opportunity to step away. All the while, Yakov glares. 

 

Minutes later, they announce his name. Yuri steps onto the ice with a tightening in his abdomen and a burning in his veins. 

 

Two hours later, he sends his grandfather a picture of the name “Yuri Plisetsky” engraved in gold and the name “Otabek Altin” in silver along with the message not to expect him and Otabek for a few more days. 

 

***

 

They skip the celebratory banquet. Neither of them mind; it’s not like they enjoy them anyway. The press will wonder at their joint disappearance, another nail in the rumor coffin cementing their alleged affair. Yuri doesn’t understand why they believe Otabek is secretly married to some omega woman in Kazakhstan. He’d laugh if he didn’t know how that particular rumor grated Otabek. 

 

On their way to the hotel, Yuri gets another text from Viktor: 

 

_Suppressants failed again?_

 

Normally, Yuri makes a point not to answer questions to which Viktor knows the answers to. But if there’s anyone else besides Otabek who can easily tell when he’s in heat, it’s Viktor. The man has borne witness to all of Yuri’s trial and error games with suppressants. He’d also been the one to send Kseniya his way when Yuri had missed a day of training the day his first heat began in earnest. Viktor has been even more overprotective since. Yuri blames the alpha in him. 

 

_Yes._

 

_Are you okay?_

 

_Fine. Walking back to hotel. Otabek is w/ me._

 

 _Good_ ;) 

 

Not a lot of people know about his relationship with Otabek. His grandfather knows and so does Yakov and Lilia. A handful of the skaters know, though he’s sure most suspect. The press has no concrete proof. And while the skating world may be cut throat, relationships are off limits (as are nude photos, see 2016 GPF celebratory banquet). 

 

It’s not that they are ashamed. It’s just the odd result of Otabek disliking the media peering into his personal life and Yuri not caring who else besides his grandfather knew. There’s also the fact most people don't know Yuri is an omega. 

 

Viktor sends another text. 

 

_I told Yakov. You have an appointment with Kseniya when you return._

 

Sweat is pooling in his back despite the late October chill. By the time they are in the elevator, sweat has curled the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s a persistent slickness between his thighs; he first noticed it about a block away from the hotel. He can't help leaning into the cool wall of the elevator. This heat is coming faster than normal.

 

He thinks Otabek must realize it too, if the way he hurries them out of the elevator once it stops on their floor is any indication. Finally, they make it into Yuri’s room. Otabek always books one under his name in case press decide to pry, but doesn’t stay in it. 

 

Yuri is hard. It is unpleasant, an ache that needs soothing. He's burning. Can't help the way his eyes turn glassy, because the fire below his skin is no longer simmering, but raging. Painful in a way he can't remember it being before. 

 

“Beka.” He needs Otabek to do something. Anything. 

 

Otabek turns towards him from where he was settling their luggage. One breath and he knows. 

 

“Fuck, Yura.” Any other time, his rare curse would have Yuri roaring with laughter. 

 

Yuri moans. 

 

He toes off his trainers, shucks his jacket to the side, and makes quick work of his costume. Before him, Otabek’s movements mirror his own. They haven't gotten past the room’s foyer. 

 

Yuri’s erection is throbbing. He can feel more slick staining his thighs. He groans and Otabek captures the sound with his mouth. Otabek presses himself against him, pining Yuri to the door; their erections rub together. 

 

“Beka,” Yuri says again, the word a gasp. When Otabek pushes two fingers into him, Yuri sinks his teeth into Otabek’s shoulder. 

 

“God, Yura,” Otabek says, fingers scissoring, stretching Yuri open. Yuri’s shaking, limbs trapped in an uncontrollable tremble. He rolls his hips, tries to get Otabek deeper. 

 

Otabek pushes a third finger in and Yuri cries out. Anyone who walks past their door will be able to hear them, Yuri is sure of it. 

 

A forehead presses against his. “You're burning,” Otabek murmurs.

 

There’s an inferno inside me, Yuri thinks. The world is going hazy at the edges. There's a sudden emptiness and then the ground disappears from beneath him. Instinctively, Yuri wraps his legs around Otabek, trusting him to support his weight. Otabek grips him hard, Yuri is sure his skin will bear the blue-green imprint of fingerprints when this is over. Otabek’s lips whisper across his collarbone, tongue occasionally flicking over Yuri’s skin—a soothing balm to the burning ache. Every touch feels like too much. Yuri buries a hand in Otabek’s hair, pulls his head back. The kiss is too rough, too messy; Yuri is impatient. 

 

He locks his legs around Otabek and grinds down. Yuri can read the dilemma in Otabek’s eyes: here or should he try moving Yuri to the bed? Resting his head against Otabek’s, Yuri spreads his thighs as much as he can, grinds down again. “Wont make it to the bed, Beka.” Every touch is a hot poker on his skin. 

 

“No, you won’t,” Otabek agrees. 

 

“Condom?” Yuri manages to ask and Otabek leans far enough that Yuri can look down, see a condom already rolled around Otabek. Sweat rolls down his back, the fist in his abdomen is an ache he wants gone. 

 

Otabek pushes himself into Yuri. The fire doesn’t go out; it burns hotter. Otabek rocks his hips and Yuri doesn’t realize he is holding his breath until Otabek cups his cheek and says, “Breathe, Yura.” 

 

Yuri’s body shakes with the exhale, the muscles of his thighs spasm. His next breaths come too fast. Yuri grips Otabek by the shoulders, arches his spine when Otabek buries his face in Yuri’s neck and pushes himself impossibly deeper. It’s still not enough. Yuri clenches his muscles, dragging a moan out of Otabek. He wants him to go faster, deeper, wants just that tiny edge of pain only Otabek can give, but he’s panting too hard that the words won’t come, the beginning of every breath a half strangled word. Otabek hears him regardless. 

 

Otabek takes a step back from the door bringing Yuri with him only to slam Yuri against it, the sound so loud Yuri’s sure everyone on the floor heard, if not felt. It knocks the breath out of him. A hand grips Yuri’s ass, forces Yuri’s hips into a grind. Yuri can’t help the moan, longer and deeper than the others he’s released tonight. The feeling of being pressed between Otabek and the door, the aching fullness within, Otabek’s bruising hold on his hip, his teeth on Yuri’s shoulder. It’s enough. 

 

Otabek’s knot is a welcome pressure, a pleasant stretch. Yuri tucks his face into the space between Otabek’s neck and collarbone, lets Otabek take all of his weight. The burn is still there, but it’s not an inferno anymore. 

 

Careful not to jostle him too much, Otabek walks them to the bed. It’s still unmade from this morning. Yuri never did see the point of making a bed when you were just going to mess it up again. Otabek lays himself down first, sits himself against the headboard. He spread his thighs on the bed and Yuri hisses. 

 

“Forgive me, Yura,” he says, smoothing a hand down Yuri’s back. “Do you want me to cover you?” 

 

Yuri shakes his head. His skin still feels overheated. 

 

“This heat—” Otabek starts. 

 

“I know,” Yuri says, face still tucked into Otabek’s neck. “It’s the suppressants.” He’s experienced this before, the last time his suppressants failed and he had another early heat. He’d been fifteen. Thankfully, the skating season had wrapped to a close by then. It’s never been like this before, though. Never been this quick to build or this urgent, a wildfire in his bones. 

 

Beneath him, Otabek sighs. Arms wrapp around Yuri. He knows the drill by now.  

 

“Viktor made an appointment with Kseniya for when we fly back,” Yuri says. 

 

“Remind me to thank him when I see him next,” Otabek says. 

 

Yuri huffs. “Remind yourself, Beka.” 

 

Otabek laughs. “All these years and you’re still a brat. Why your fanbase doesn’t see it, I’ll never understand.” 

 

Yuri pokes Otabek’s side. “You’re just jealous you don’t have my kind of fanbase.” 

 

“Considering how often I’ve had to rescue you from them, I’m not jealous at all.” Otabek sits up straighter. “Think you can get on your side?” 

 

Yuri considers. For it to work, turning on his side would mean wrapping one leg over Otabek and letting Otabek’s weight crush the other. “No.” 

 

“Okay,” Otabek says. “Did Viktor say what time the appointment was for?” 

 

“He never does. Just has Kseniya clear a few mornings,” Yuri says. He’s always found it easier to have doctor’s appointments in the late morning after he’s managed at least several hours of practice. 

 

Otabek smiles. “He knows you well.” 

 

Yuri lifts his face from Otabek’s neck. “You know me better.”

 

They won’t sleep much tonight or tomorrow. He’s not sure how long this heat will last. Either the typical three days or less. Perhaps more. What he does know is that when they fly into Moscow, his grandfather will meet them at the airport gate, a bag of pirozhok in hand. He knows they will spend their second morning in Moscow on the ice before the sun comes up, instead of in bed adjusting to the different time zone, and then after in Kseniya’s office, listening to her read through the potential side effects of Yuri’s next batch of suppressants, Otabek an unperturbed presence at his side.


End file.
